


Lips In My Hair

by fierybeams



Category: Glee
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-25 11:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2620598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fierybeams/pseuds/fierybeams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt and Elliott's relationship as told through hair dye. Or: Five times Elliott changed his hair, and one time Kurt did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hot lava red.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Kelliott Appreciation Weekend](http://fyeahkelliott.tumblr.com/post/100513593725/hi-everyone-im-working-to-put-together-some)!

Elliott’s hair is red.  

Fire-engine eye-popping red-as-all-fuck _red_ , and Kurt’s jaw hangs wide when he swings the door open. 

“Wow, that’s-- oh god, is this about me?” The question catapults out of his gaping mouth before he can re-evaluate, frantic and pitchy. Kurt cringes as Elliott’s eyebrows (themselves still brunette, at least) shoot up. 

“About you--?”

“Sorry. Forget I said anything. I was just shocked. It’s very...garish.” 

“Garish,” Elliott’s eyebrows inch up even further, eyes sparkling (blue still, of course, but _different_ , somehow, altered by that thick tower of jesus-fuck- _red_.)  

“I meant-- nice-- bold-- not _at all_ clashing with the bright emerald of that vest you’re sporting!”  

“Just come in and sit down,” Elliott laughs, stepping aside and waving Kurt toward his couch with an elegantly outstretched forearm. “I’ll be right back.”

 _Hopefully with a new head of hair_ , Kurt thinks, then coughs, scoldingly to himself, feeling immediately guilty. Elliott is judged and scrutinized on the daily by enough people as it is. Kurt doesn’t need to add to the glut. He takes a seat as asked and shifts.  

Once he’s swallowed his final vestiges of hair-related shrewdness, that initial panic creeps back up his chest. 

It’s not like Elliott radically and suddenly changing his hair with no warning is a new thing. They’ve been close for years, and Kurt has a whole string of rainbow-colored, Elliott-proximate memories, different moments hued by the different shades of dye sticking to his head. Those recollections are always stand-out ones, though, the drama of Elliott’s hair always rising to meet the drama of his life at a given moment: Kurt remembers news of Elliott’s admission and transfer to NYADA, tears and hugs nearly overwhelmed by the bright orange shock of his hair, the death of his grandmother followed by a dark inky blue Kurt hadn’t ever asked about, and that one horrific time Elliott had shaved his entire head after a nasty breakup (Kurt doesn’t think any catalogued color known to human eyes could _ever_ be as bad as _that_.)  

But now it’s red, and that’s new, _very_ new, after months and months of Elliott sticking to his default black. And maybe it doesn’t mean anything, but it _usually_ does, and Kurt is desperately trying to convince himself that he’s being both paranoid and self-absorbed in assuming that Elliott’s sudden physical shift has anything to do with the fact that they made out and jerked each other off last night. _Surely_ any number of things could have happened in Elliott’s life since then. Or maybe the guy just woke up and wanted a change. Kurt got that, it happened to him sometimes, too (but Kurt usually dialed it back, splurging on a pair of bold pants or something saucy like a new corset, and, okay, there _had_ been that one time with the tattoo and the piercing, but _still_.)  

Kurt pinches himself and breathes in and out, one, two, three, four times, forcing himself to think about anything else. 

It works for all of four seconds (his go-to Sweeney Todd medley sweetly filling his head) until he hears a _thump_ from Elliott’s room and his heart rate escalates again.  

The thing is, hair or no hair, Kurt-related or not Kurt-related, he and Elliott had, well. Done things. Things they’d never done before, at least never beyond the safe boundaries of Kurt’s late-night guilty fantasies, and Kurt had been _fine_ after, had wiped his palm and kissed Elliott’s cheek, pulled his pants back up and gone home and to bed that night confident that it was _nothing_ (and that was a dirty dirty lie, he knows now, but at least he’d convinced himself for a second.) But now there’s the hair and even if it isn’t about Kurt (but it _is_ , Kurt knows it is, as surely as he ever knows anything) it’s still bouncing all this self-doubt and desire _back_ at him and Elliott has been so, so important to Kurt for so long and Kurt is terrified he’s ruined everything with his hungry mouth and his groping palm and his desperate, _desperate_ cock. _Stupid_. 

When Elliott walks back in, footsteps scuffling against the hardwood floor of his apartment, Kurt’s face is buried in his twisted hands, legs crossed and bouncing anxiously. 

“Woah, are you--”

“I ruined everything,” Kurt intones, flat and despair-tinged. He looks up, eyes dead, barely taking Elliott in at all in his mind-fogging panic. “I was horny and you were _there_ , and hot and wonderful and _you_ , of course, and I ruined every-- oh, you changed out of the emerald vest, you didn’t have to do--” 

“Kurt, relax,” Elliott is smiling, voice bubbly with amusement as a steady, knowing spark gleams in his eye. Elliott joins him on the couch, clasping Kurt’s clammy hand in his. Kurt is tempted to recoil, but allows it, already feeling more grounded. Elliott always has this effect on him, even when he’s throwing Kurt’s entire center off with something as simple as hair dye.  

“Okay,” Kurt breathes out, turning his body to face Elliott’s more completely, eyeing him carefully. He can sort of see the appeal of the red, now that Elliott is only in a simple black V-neck, and maybe it’s not the _ideal_ shade for his skintone but it does do something special to his eyes, Kurt can admit-- 

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Elliott assures him, breaking off Kurt’s inward spiral. “But maybe we should talk about it.” 

“Okay,” Kurt agrees, heart fluttering, palm growing even clammier in Elliott’s soft hand. “You first.” 

Elliott purses his lips at him, disbelieving, but concedes with a quiet laugh when Kurt pouts, a perfect portrait of piteousness.  

“Fine. What we did last night...I’ve been wanting to do it for a long time. Like, for longer than it’s maybe even appropriate to admit.”  

The confession hangs in the air, reckless and throbbing. Kurt hopes that with silence Elliott will say more, soften the edges of that sentence a little bit, but he only snaps his mouth shut, pointedly, chin tilted toward Kurt in what looks almost like a challenge. 

Kurt isn’t sure what to say. He’s both surprised and not, flattered and embarrassed, vibrating with _want_ but stiff and terrified at the core of it all.  

They stare at each for several moments, Elliott’s eyes bright and the slant to his mouth _relieved_ , somehow, the weight of whatever Kurt’s response will be nonetheless pressing down hard on both of them. Kurt’s mind has gone blank, repeating Elliott’s words again and again in his head, obsessively like they might become less real that way: “ _I’ve been wanting to do it for a long time...like, for longer than it’s maybe even appropriate to admit_ ,” on loop. 

Kurt breathes in, chest clearing, feeling like his body has made a decision his mind isn’t yet cognizant of.  

Elliott smiles a little, hand squeezing around Kurt’s.  

His hand is warm and everything feels suddenly, blissfully _easy_. 

“Me too,” Kurt exhales, the admission hot and tingly on his tongue, spine sagging in relief once it’s out.  

Kurt laughs, a little giddy, eyes sweeping up to the immaculately styled coif of cherry-red hair atop Elliott’s head. His laughter intensifies, struck as he is by the ridiculousness of all of this, the delayed confessions and Kurt’s mindless panic and the fact that Elliott’s hair is fucking _red_.  

“Oh, thank god,” Elliott breathes, a hand flung theatrically over his chest. “I had no idea how I was going to handle the situation if you had said anything else. I had no back-up plan.” 

“Always jumping blindly into things,” Kurt smiles, raising the hand not clasped in Elliott’s up to run it through his hair, because he’s _allowed_ to do that kind of thing, now, and it feels appropriate. “Still soft,” he observes in a whisper, letting his lips linger open when he notices Elliott’s face inching toward his own. 

They sit like this, both breathless: mouths open centimeters away from one another, hands linked and Kurt tugging softly at Elliott’s hair. Elliott leans forward, finally, lips curved in a smile, pressing against Kurt’s own, tongue lapping out to meet Kurt’s. Kurt gasps a cut-off “ _oh_ ” and melts into the kiss, face hot like it’s been set on fire. It’s different than last night’s first kiss, less sloppy, somehow _more_ tentative, softer and more careful as if either of them might break at any moment. 

They rediscover the intoxicated boldness of the night before quickly, however, Kurt’s tugs growing sharper, fingernails digging into Elliott’s scalp as Elliott moves a hand to grip tightly at Kurt’s waist. They’re panting into each other’s mouths, hands untangling to feel more of one another, a large palm on Kurt’s ass and the feel of Elliott’s crotch beneath Kurt’s hand. 

When Elliott pulls away, leaving Kurt mouthing hungrily at the air for a few seconds before the move is registered, he moves to attack Kurt’s neck, teeth scraping at the makeup-covered bruises he’d already littered there the night before (and that _can’t_ taste good, Kurt muses, but you’d never be able to tell with the moany-slurpy noises reverberating against Kurt’s throat.) Tender and even more sensitive there than usual, Kurt’s eyes roll instantly to the back of his head, hand squeezing the back of Elliott’s neck as his hand remains firm at Elliott’s (stiffening, Kurt can feel even through the thick fabric of his pants) cock.  

Kurt moans, high and slow, craning his neck back to give Elliott wider access, sparks dancing behind his screwed-shut eyes as Elliott’s tongue soothes over the bite marks he’s freshly piercing. Elliott brings a hand to Kurt’s shoulder and gently pushes him onto his back, tongue and lips still toiling at his overworked neck. Lying flat, Kurt wraps a leg around Elliott when he crawls on top of him, whimpering helplessly as Elliott resumes nipping, sharp stinging sucks that have Kurt helpless beneath him, cock throbbing where he’s rutting up against Elliott’s rounded hip.  

With a growl, Elliott tears away from Kurt’s neck and stands up abruptly, dragging Kurt’s legs over the end of the couch until he’s back in seated position (though sprawled out, now, neck stinging and dick poking through his shorts.) Elliott unbuttons and unzips said shorts in seconds with rough, fast-moving hands, yanking them down to Kurt’s knees. Kurt gasps, cool air hitting bared thighs. Dropping to his knees, Elliott gently traces the stiff bulge visible through the bright pink of Kurt’s briefs, the soft touch making Kurt buck in place as he re-floods with leg-trembling _need_. 

Hooking his thumbs beneath the waistband of Kurt’s underwear, Elliott looks up at him, eyes ravenous but thoughtful.  

“This okay?”

“God-- yes--” Kurt steadies himself on his elbows, head pounding in the dizzying adrenaline of having Elliott near his cock again.  

With a lecherous smile up at Kurt, Elliott pulls the fabric down, leaving it bunched up just beneath Kurt’s balls. Kurt and Elliott both fix their eyes on the sight: Kurt’s long thin pink-purple cock straining just above the fuschia of his briefs, dark hair separating the rose-white of his hips and belly from the colored swell of his dick.  

Elliott drops to give the base of Kurt’s cock a small, teasing, exploratory lick, and Kurt stares at the crown of his head, all that bright red hair suddenly hilarious again. Kurt laughs through the moan Elliott’s wet tongue pulls out of him, cheeks flushed when Elliott quickly snaps up, chin brushing the tip of Kurt’s dick. 

“What?” Elliott asks, a baffled smile on his reddened lips. 

“I was just thinking,” Kurt breathes in hard, willing his voice to regain composure. “If just getting a _fist_ around my penis inspired you to go red, what color will you opt for after it’s been in your mouth? May I suggest--” 

“No, and _shut up_ ,” Elliott laughs.  

Kurt’s opening his mouth to reply when Elliott’s mouth wraps around the head of his cock, hot, wet, and so damn tight that Kurt does exactly as commanded, opting for a yelp instead.  

Looking down at the halo of red covering his hips, Kurt allows himself to think _you know,_ _the hair isn’t really that bad_ before Elliott sucks with increased force and he throws his head back, words, hair, and color forgotten.  


	2. fish bowl cyan.

The next time Elliott changes his hair, it’s at Kurt’s request. 

They’re walking hand in hand down a sunlit New York sidewalk, the air around them crisp as dead orange leaves crunch beneath their boots. Both of them are silent, full and sated after a heavy breakfast at a diner Dani had recommended. Kurt turns to look at Elliott, his face clean of makeup, black hair (back to his default) a touch messy, eyes tired from a late, drunken night (and that’s Kurt’s fault, but Elliott had scored a small role in an off-Broadway production and celebrating with two bottles of rose wine had felt absolutely _necessary_.) 

Elliott feels his stare and turns to look at him, a warm smile spreading his slightly chapped lips, and Kurt thinks, as naturally as if it’s a thought he’s had a million times before, _I love you_. He’s only slightly startled, and the moment is perfect, really: Elliott’s hand warm in his, a dry breeze on Kurt’s face, the sky a vivid turquoise behind Elliott’s head.  

He wants to say it, _I love you_ , but something stops him: the blue-tinged bags under Elliott’s eyes, maybe, or the worry that it’s too soon (after years of Blaine, four months of dating feels, suddenly, like ‘too soon.’)  

He’s been staring, though, with a _look_ on his face, and Elliott is eyeing him curiously, and he knows he has to say _something_.  

“You should dye your hair cyan,” he lands on, as casually as if he _isn’t_ swallowing the sentence he _wants_ to hear in the air. “Like the sky right now, maybe.” 

Elliott looks quickly up, then back down, an eyebrow raised.  

“Since when are you an advocate of unnaturally-hued hair dye? You practically begged me to get rid of that red--” 

“I did _not_ ,” Kurt insists, huffy, because, seriously, he’d wanted to, but he _hadn’t_ (and it’d been incredibly noble of him, really, to be willing to start dating a guy rocking a hair shade it looked like he’d picked up from Hot Topic, or stolen from a moody teenager.)  

“Not in so many words, maybe, but you weren’t exactly subtle,” Elliott laughs, pinching his face and adopting a higher, breathier speaking pitch that Kurt can only assume is meant to emulate himself: “‘ _I saw the loveliest cashmere blend Westwood print scarf that would have been perfect for you, but I worried there was too much red in it for it work with your hair_.’”  

“It wasn’t a cashmere blend Westwoo--” 

“ _‘The major downside to red hair is how quickly it fades, every time you re-dye it it snaps right back to the grisly orange-pink you’re sporting now_...’”  

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Kurt wriggles his hand out of Elliott’s, irritable.  

Elliott wraps an arm around Kurt’s waist in response, pulling him closer with a laugh when Kurt’s spine stiffens. 

“I’m teasing,” Elliott presses a cold nose against Kurt’s cheek, breath hot against his ear. “You feel your aesthetic opinions very strongly, it’s one of the things I love about you.”  

_One of the things I love about you_. Kurt’s heart thumps erratically, ears warming. He knows it’s a mostly hollow statement, a cliché phrase used liberally and without discretion, but he feels a little lightheaded hearing it anyway (and a little ridiculous for feeling so strongly about it at all.)  

They reach the entrance to Elliott’s apartment building, an arrival Kurt uses as an excuse to not reply, holding the door open for Elliott with a wide, cheeky smile.  

“Such a gentleman,” Elliott says, rolling his eyes fondly.  

They trot upstairs together in comfortable silence, heavy footsteps echoing around them.  

“I don’t know about the hair, though,” Elliott interrupts after a few moments. “I mean, not that I doubt your impeccable judgement, but I just got this part and I’m not sure how they’d feel about--” 

“No, yeah, of course, I wasn’t thinking. Just forget it.” Kurt smiles back at him, shaking his head slightly and looking down as they reach the door to Elliott’s place. 

Elliott unlocks the door and laughs at the sight of his living room: empty wine bottles, scattered copies of Vogue, a pair of briefs lying gracelessly on the coffee table. 

“I almost forgot how messy we got last night,” Elliott laughs, kicking a magazine as if to straighten it out before sighing, thinking better of it. “I’ll deal with this later.” 

Something about the sight reminds Kurt how very sleep-deprived and slightly hungover he still is, a heavy wave of fatigue settling on his eyelids.  

“I need a nap,” Kurt yawns, head dull. “That walk over here took something out of me.” 

“Yes, I’m sure it was the _walk_ and not the fact that you were up well past 3 AM dancing to Christina Aguilera in your underwear.” 

“I-- I forgot about that,” Kurt closes his eyes, a hand over his face.  

“ _Repressed_ , maybe,” Elliott grins, settling down on his couch and poking the underwear in question with a foot.  

“Christina Aguilera, _really_?” 

“Go to sleep, no point in dwelling on it now,” Elliott laughs and lays back, eyes closing. 

“Aren’t you going to join me?” Kurt asks, gesturing towards Elliott’s bedroom with another undignified yawn. 

“No, I have things I need to take care of, I’m just giving myself a second to recharge. Go nap.” 

“Okay,” Kurt shuffles over to kiss Elliott softly on the forehead. He smells like apricot face scrub. _I love you_ , Kurt thinks again, chest tightening because oh god this is becoming a _thing_ and he’s going to have to _say_ it before he bursts or makes things weird (but every part of him just wants to wait in hope that Elliott will say it first.) 

Kurt walks into Elliott’s bedroom without another word, legs and head heavy, and flings himself onto the large, squishy bed, burying himself beneath the covers and nearly moaning from the simple pleasure of it. Head dimming, he thinks only of blue skies and warm palms and chapped lips as he sinks deeply into sleep. 

*** 

There’s a hand gently shaking his shoulder. 

“Kurt,” he hears Elliott whisper into his ear. “I don’t want to incur your wrath, but you’ve been asleep for four hours now and I think waking you up is actually doing you a favor.” 

Kurt moans miserably, feeling somehow more exhausted than he had _pre_ -nap.  

“I know,” Elliott laughs sympathetically, running his hand down the bare skin of Kurt’s arm. “Get up, you’ll feel better.” 

Kurt only groans again, eyes still closed.  

“Kurt, come on,” Elliott hand is on his face now, soft and caressing. “There’s something I want you to see.”  

Kurt slides an eye open, the sunlight filling the room unbearably bright. Elliott’s face is a blur above him. Kurt rubs his eyes with a groan and forces them open again, shooting up when his vision sharpens and the mysterious something that Elliott wanted him to see becomes clear. 

“Oh my god-- your hair--” Kurt gasps, eyes wide, the shock of the sight before him erasing all traces of sleepiness. 

Elliott grins, teeth white. His hair is cyan, impossibly bright, still damp from being recently rinsed, hanging wetly down onto his forehead.  

“Oh, you shouldn’t have listened to me, I’m going to hate this in a week,” Kurt is laughing, chest light, face scrunching. 

“I know,” Elliott laughs, too. “I’m probably going to have to change it as soon as rehearsals for the show begin, anyway, but I thought it’d be fun to play with your unexpected request--” 

“I love you,” Kurt blurts out. 

His smile fades, fear creeping up his spine again, but he can’t regret it. Not when he _feels_ it this intensely. Not when Elliott put his hair through the trial of bleach and dye just to humor a random suggestion Kurt had made.  

Elliott’s mouth closes, eyes blinking quickly. Kurt inhales and prepares for the worst. 

It doesn’t come. 

“Oh,” Elliott breathes, running a hand through damp blue hair. “Well, I love you, too. To be honest, I sort of thought that was obvious.” 

“I guess it kind of was,” Kurt’s smile is so wide it feels like it’s splitting his face in half as he leaps forward to bring their lips together with so much gusto it feels almost like an attack.  


	3. limelight green.

Kurt is sitting next to Blaine, sulking and trying desperately to appear otherwise. Blaine is quiet as the party at his apartment bustles around them, the thumping music and drunken people intensifying Kurt’s current state of bitterness to alarming heights. 

“Shouldn’t you be playing generous host, or spending time with your boyfriend, or something?” Kurt spits at Blaine, turning finally to face him. 

“You looked like you needed some company,” Blaine is smiling at him all sweet and earnest like he _hasn’t_ just been rudely asked to leave, and Kurt sighs, defeated.

“I’m fine,” Kurt says, voice clenched. He attempts a small smile for Blaine’s sake, but can tell by the way Blaine’s mouth quirks in amusement that he succeeds only in looking deranged.  

“Is it about his hair?” Blaine asks, lips still twitching like he wants to laugh.  

“No,” Kurt huffs.  

Despite himself, Kurt immediately scans the sparse crowd to fix his eyes on Elliott. Elliott who sticks out like a sore thumb even more than usual because his hair is now _green_. Acid, Nickelodeon, radioactive green.  

It looks terrible, of course. Kurt _hates_ it, of course.  

Kurt’s eyes slide back to Blaine, who is smiling again, now, hazel eyes sparkling.  

“It’s not about--” Kurt begins, then looks down into his lap with a lengthy exhale. “Okay, so maybe it _is_ about the hair but--” 

Blaine interrupts him with a full-throated laugh. 

“ _But_ ,” Kurt continues, eyes hardening, “Not for the reasons you probably think.” 

“Why, then?” Blaine is considering him with wide-eyed interest, arms crossed cautiously against his chest.  

“Elliott’s hair changes are usually...catalyzed by something,” Kurt gets out, an anxious pull in his stomach. “He walked into my place today with that new _abominable_ head of hair and offered no explanation. Not even after I asked about it.”

Blaine’s eyebrows are pinched together like he’s not really following.  

“He’s keeping something from me,” Kurt clarifies in a hushed, conspiratorial whisper. Blaine looks unconvinced, but Kurt disregards it. “Which is _fine_ , but it’s like he’s rubbing it in my face parading around with that wrecked hair.” 

“Don’t you think that’s a little--” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know, paranoid?” 

“Maybe,” Kurt mutters, frowning. “But I’ve known Elliott for years. His hair-alteration patterns have never been mysterious to me before. And now, after almost a year of dating him...this.”  

Blaine nods, understanding. He looks like he wants to say something but is holding it back.  

Kurt has always fucking _hated_ that look. 

“What?” Kurt asks, a little pricklier than necessary. 

“It’s just going to piss you off,” Blaine shakes his head, still smiling. 

“Try me.” Kurt snorts.  

“I find it funny that you of all people would take this much offense to someone wanting to keep something private--” 

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“I think you know.” 

“I really don’t.” Kurt’s anger has hardened into something frosty and absolutely lethal, left fist clenched against his thigh. 

“Do you have any idea how many mysterious little quirks _you_ had that I felt constantly shut out of?” 

“Well, maybe if you’d thought to _ask_ me about them instead of opting to sulk away like a petulant _child_ every time--” 

“And maybe I would have if you didn’t treat every other thing I initiated as some kind of encroachment of your precious _personal space_ \--”  

“This isn’t about us, Blaine,” Kurt snaps finally, lips clicking tightly together as Blaine’s own mouth drops open just slightly. “Let it go.” 

“ _Let it go_ ,” Blaine repeats, mouth twisting painfully as his voice nears hysteria. “Two years of marriage, but _let it go_ , he says, I guess it sure seemed easy enough for you so why _not_ dispense such--” 

“Blaine, you’re drunk,” Kurt is sharp, eyes stinging. He can’t do this right now. He needs Blaine in his corner. 

“And _you’re_ invalidating my…” Blaine falls quiet, cutting himself off with a hand over his face and an embarrassed giggle. He peeks through his fingers at Kurt with a sheepish, apologetic smile. “Yeah, okay, I kind of am. Drunk, I mean.” 

“Sorry,” Kurt breathes. “I think maybe-- talking about our new people, it’s just too soon, maybe…”  

“Something tells me it’ll always be too soon for that,” Blaine laughs, a watery sound, and Kurt can feel the beginnings of something inside him falling apart.  

Kurt struggles to reply, throat constricted, but finds himself saved by Blaine’s hand closing over his own and his lips opening to speak again. 

“Anyway,” Blaine smiles, composing himself. “We haven’t spoken in a few days, I’ve been so busy with the party planning. How are you, green hair dye aside?” 

Blaine’s eyes are twinkling again, and the glowing sight of it pulls Kurt back together.  

“I’m okay,” Kurt says, and it only _kind of_ feels like a lie. “Things at Vogue have been picking up, so I’ve been busy, too. You?” 

“Yeah, busy with school. Speaking of, Carmen is going to be announcing the theme of this year’s mid-winter critique soon, you need to help me brainstorm and practice as soon as she does, who better to help me than Accomplished NYADA Graduate Kurt Hummel?” 

Kurt laughs at that. “ _Accomplished_ , oh god, I don’t know about that, I haven’t even had time to go for any of the auditions I’ve been tracking.” 

“But you will.” 

“Yes,” Kurt agrees. “And yes -- of course I’ll help you. Of course.” 

Kurt is smiling, wide and teeth-baring and not at all self-conscious. Blaine mirrors the beam back at him. For a flickering second, history falls away, and they’re teenagers again, bright-eyed and hopeful and stupidly, _stupidly_ in love. Tension crackles in the air between them.

Blaine breaks it first (and Kurt is only momentarily regretful before relief washes over him), moving his hand and gesturing toward the crowd of people with his head as he rises to his feet.  

“I should go play, you know, generous host, as you suggested earlier,” Blaine grins, playful. “Dance with me first?” 

Kurt considers it for a moment. Blaine’s hand on his waist, hips swaying inches apart, Elliott looking on, hair green and secretive and _awful_. A wave of sadness hits Kurt in the face, cold and stinging, and he isn’t sure if it’s Elliott or Blaine or both or him or _what_.  

“No,” Kurt says, gentle, standing up. “I think I’m going to head out, actually. I’m a little tired. Give Ralph my warmest birthday wishes, and if you see Elliott, can you mention I headed to my place early? I saw him make the line for the bathroom a few minutes ago, but it looks pretty long, so…” 

“Yeah, sure. Thanks for coming. Sorry about--” 

“Yeah, yeah, me too. Don’t worry about it.”  

“I’ll see you soon, then,” Blaine kisses his cheek, warm, soft, and a little wet. It feels almost inappropriate (but of course that’s ridiculous.) “Send Rachel my best.” 

Kurt nods in agreement and walks toward the exit, passing gingerly through the swaying swarm of people populating Blaine’s small apartment, careful to avoid making eye contact with anyone. 

He’s barely swung the door behind him shut before the tears he’s been swallowing trickle down his face.  

Dignified tears, mind you, _stone-faced_ tears, but tears nonetheless, and Kurt still isn’t entirely sure what’s wrong.

He and Blaine had never stopped being close, despite everything, despite all the pain of it, sometimes. It had stopped hurting, though, for a long time, after Elliott and the world of something else he opened up for Kurt. Kurt was happy with him, Blaine was happy with Ralph, they were all friendly, and everything had felt mended, somehow, not quite seamless but close enough.  

But now there’s the hovering question of the acid-green hair and all the weirdness it undoubtedly encapsulates and Kurt is suddenly doubting everything.  

It feels like the first harbinger of apocalypse, an eye-blinding vision, foreshadowing for another relationship brought to mangled ruins. Kurt has been _happy_ , loved, fellated, cuddled and fucked-out, and it’s only just occurring to him that just because _he’s_ felt that way doesn’t mean Elliott has, too. He’s on edge now, defensive, retracing past steps for hints as to where he went wrong and feeling increasingly resentful for having to play this game at all.

He’s eyeing the busy street beside him and considering hailing a cab so he can be alone and crying in his room sooner when he hears his name called out somewhere behind him. He turns to see Elliott jogging toward him, long arms swinging as his patterned black scarf streams ludicrously behind him, the green sweep of his hair bouncing.  

Kurt stills and wipes his tears hastily, turning to face Elliott completely with a raised eyebrow and a tentative smile on his face. 

Elliott catches up quickly, bending forward with hands on denim-clad knees to catch his breath. Kurt adjusts the tail of his scarf so it’s falling across his chest (as its designer no doubt intended.)  

“It’s a shame it’s not raining,” Kurt laughs when Elliott looks up, flushed pink and still panting. “That minor detail is all that’s keeping this moment from reaching sheer cliché rom-com perfection.”  

“I bombed an audition,” Elliott says with no prompting whatsoever, voice thin, eyes determined. 

“You bombed--?” 

“I mean, like, _really_ bombed. I was off-key, off-rhythm. I shredded the big high note. It was dreadful.” 

“Oh,” Kurt says, surprised. His tears feel far away from him now. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I don’t know. Shame, I guess. Anyway. That’s why-- the hair. I thought it might make me feel better, or changed, or something. I should have told you when you asked.” 

“It’s just one audition, Elliott, it happens,” Kurt raises a hand to Elliott’s high shoulder. “You’re amazing.”  

“I know. I mean -- the ‘just one audition’ part, I know. It wasn’t a big deal. I shouldn’t have made it one.” 

“You didn’t,” Kurt laughs, and slides his hand up Elliott’s neck and face to run it through his hair, ignoring the passing couple who eye the two of them strangely. “I do hate this color, though. But I hate it less now.” 

“Okay, so we got the green-haired elephant out of the proverbial room,” Elliott grins. “Now, onto the gelled one…” 

“The gelled--?” 

“I saw you talking to Blaine. It looked...intense.” Elliott is considering him carefully, face unreadable, but kind. 

“We were talking about you,” Kurt admits, cheeks heating. “The hair...thing.” Kurt laughs, covering his mouth. “Sorry, that feels so stupid now.”

Elliott chuckles but stays quiet, clearly expecting more.  

“Anyway,” Kurt continues, slightly nervous. “We were talking about you, then it somehow turned into talking about us -- me and Blaine, I mean -- and we got into an argument, and we both said cruel things, but...we worked it out.”  

That ending sounds lame and unfinished to Kurt’s own ears; suspicious, even. He frowns.

“Okay,” Elliott says, wrapping an arm around Kurt as if to get the two of them walking again, conversation finished. That seems unfair to Elliott, somehow, and Kurt shimmies away, eyes closed and a confession swelling up his tongue. 

“There was a moment, after we made up, where I remembered what we used to be -- me and Blaine. I _felt_ it, for a moment, and I _missed_ it, and it was the first time it’s happened in a long time and-- I don’t know what I’m saying, or why I’m telling you this, but I thought you should know.”

Elliott nods, face blank. “Thank you for telling me.” 

“Is that-- is that okay? Are we okay?” Kurt’s heart is pounding in his throat, every pulse an ache. 

“I think so,” Elliott smiles. “If _you_ think we’re okay.”  

“I do,” Kurt says, with maybe a touch more confidence than he actually feels, but this is _Elliott_ , who just ran out of a party to chase Kurt down the street and ensure that they talked things through before something collapsed. Kurt _needs_ this to be okay. “Can we...go to your place? Rachel will be home, and I really want to…you know...” 

“Let’s go,” Elliott grabs Kurt’s hand, fingers interknit. Kurt puts his head onto his shoulder and clings to his arm like one of them might disappear if he doesn’t. 


	4. knife edge silver.

His hair is silver. 

Of course, Kurt would have frankly been offended if he _hadn’t_ changed his hair post-breakup, but it hurts to see it anyway. (At least he hadn’t shaved his head again. Small mercies.)

They’re not on speaking terms, and it’s only by chance that Kurt is seeing him at all. Kurt is seated at a small, trendy café, pathetic and alone with a white mocha in one hand and his sketchpad in another.  

Elliott is alone, too, a book propped open in front of him, but he looks impressive, majestic, even, like exactly the kind of person who can confidently sit by their lonesome in public with the knowledge that that very loneliness will only make them look _more_ magnetic. Kurt wonders if Elliott comes here often, wonders how many men and women must approach him with a hungry hope gleaming in their eye. He squeezes the warm cup in his hand with more force than necessary. 

He should stop staring, he knows, because Elliott somehow hasn’t noticed him yet and Kurt still has time to gracelessly duck out with a few bare threads of pride left in hand, but he can’t. Elliott looks fucking _good_ , first of all, and of course he’d find a dye that appealed to Kurt after they’d broken up -- of course. _It was probably intentional_ , Kurt thinks bitterly, clinging to that surge of resentment for just a few moments before despair prevails once more. 

He misses Elliott with an intensity that wakes him in the middle of the night, pillows and sheets stained with tears, sweat, and cum.  

It’s pathetic. Kurt is pathetic, and the absolute worst part is the knowledge that this time he has no one but himself to blame. Guilt creeps up him, cold and slimy as it always is, palms and all his creases going clammy. 

(It’s astonishing that Elliott hasn’t felt Kurt’s eyes boring into him yet. So astonishing, in fact, that Kurt considers the possibility that he’s not actually there at all, that his striking silver-haired likeness has been merely conjured up by Kurt’s self-destructive imagination, a ghost manifest _outside_ Kurt’s mind for once.)  

He should have known better than to let himself spend time with Blaine, alone, in private, with alcohol in the mix. Something about Blaine has always made Kurt feel profoundly helpless, free will vanishing in the glow of that bright smile (but he knows that’s no excuse.) Blaine had kissed him, and Kurt had let him, because he was drunk and sad and Blaine never stops feeling so familiar, so _essential_ , somehow.  

They’d kissed, and Kurt had stopped it before their tongues even had a chance to touch, but that hadn’t mattered -- Kurt had known it, and Elliott had known it, too. Kurt had gone straight to Elliott and confessed, words slurring and head throbbing, and he’d known it was over before Elliott had said as much. “ _I love you_ ,” Kurt had told him, confession still hanging blood-soaked and pungent between them. And he’d meant it, maybe more than ever before, but Elliott’s sad “ _yes, I know_ ” had said it all. It didn’t matter, and why should it? Kurt remembers well the specificity of the sting of being cheated on -- worse than anything.

Blaine had confessed to his partner, too, and been forgiven. They’re both still happy, and Kurt should be happy _for_ them, Blaine especially, but he can’t help but feel a little worse for it, for knowing that Ralph valued Blaine over his mistake where Elliott couldn’t do the same for him. (And if he’s being brutally honest with himself, it hurts also that Kurt could be perceived as Not A Real Threat, that kissing Kurt is No Big Deal, something to be confessed and brushed aside as the two jump right back into planning their next big social gathering. It hurts that kissing Blaine, exquisite and awful all at once, hadn’t altered the world in any significant way for anyone but him.)  

Elliott had been clear but understanding, visibly hurt but sympathetic to Kurt’s pain, too, had told him that he had no intention of losing his friendship but that he needed time to get back to that place (and that’s not just an empty cliché coming from Elliott, Kurt knows, because Elliott means the things he says and doesn’t hold on to grudges and has so much love and warmth in him that it frightens Kurt, sometimes.) 

It’s been a couple of months now, though, with no word from Elliott, and Kurt can’t help but worry that he’s changed his mind, dyed his hair and found inside his new reflection a revelation about Kurt’s disposability. The thought of that cracks Kurt clean in half.  

Two months with not a peep, and now they’re in the same small, enclosed space, both alone, Elliott beautiful and different where Kurt is worn-down and stagnantly the same, but Kurt’s skin feels alive with the possibility of the moment, anyway, the kaleidoscope of _what if_ s: what if Elliott approached him, what if Kurt got up and sat next to him, what if they fought, what if they talked, what if they just sat across a table and stared without a word, what if Elliott dragged in him into a bathroom and fucked him into the cold hard wall? 

Elliott won’t _look up_ , though, and Kurt knows it’s not on him to make the first move.  

After ten minutes pass in eventless agony, Kurt accepts that this is just simple coincidence, burdened with no meaning, fate, or closure. He packs his sketchpad up and exits quietly, Elliott’s head never once rising from his book. 

*** 

He wakes up the next morning to a text from Elliott, heart leaping at the sight of it.

_\----To Kurt (1:16 AM)_ : hey, kurt. i saw you at that cafe today. i’m sorry i didn’t say hi. 

Kurt scans it several times, feeling more and more light-headed with each rereading. He isn’t sure what to make of it, or how one appropriately replies to a text offering both so much and so little in a single swipe. 

Kurt inhales deeply. 

_\----To Elliott (7:47 AM)_ : Hi, Elliott. I saw you, too. I wish you had said hi.  

It doesn’t feel like enough, so Kurt hastily adds: 

_\----To Elliott (7:48 AM)_ : I’m loving the silver, by the way. Very chic.  

Elliott replies quickly. Kurt’s stomach flips. 

_\----To Kurt (7:49 AM)_ : wow, thanks. that means a lot coming from you.  

_\----To Kurt (7:49 AM)_ : i’m glad i finally landed on a hair color that appeals to your exemplary taste. 

_\----To Kurt (7:50 AM)_ : and i’m saying hi now. :)  

_\----To Elliott (7:51 AM)_ : It looks fabulous. You look fabulous, in general.  

_\----To Kurt (7:52 AM)_ : you looked tired. everything okay? 

_\----To Elliott (7:55 AM)_ : Yeah. Busy. Vogue stuff...you know how it is. 

_\----To Elliott (7:56 AM)_ : You? You deleted your Facebook, much to my chagrin.  

_\----To Elliott (7:57 AM)_ : It’s made stalking nearly impossible.  

\---- _To Kurt (7:58 AM):_ ha. i’m great. busy, too. lots of small jobs here and there. 

\---- _To Elliott (7:59 AM)_ : I’m glad to hear that. You deserve it. 

\---- _To Kurt (8:05 AM)_ : thank you, kurt. well, i just wanted to check in. i promise i’ll say hi if we run into each other again. 

\---- _To Elliott (8:06 AM)_ : Good. Thank you. I can’t tell you how nice it is to hear from you. 

Elliott doesn’t respond again, and Kurt isn’t sure what to make of anything. He spends the entire day scrolling through the conversation when he gets a spare minute, though, not daring to let himself _hope_ but relishing in this small kindness nonetheless. 

***

Really, there’s no reason at all for Kurt to still show up for his shifts at the Spotlight Diner. Now that Vogue is paying him (and handsomely) for his efforts, the sad $47 he averages on the one weekly shift he still has time for is hardly worth it.  

But it’s the one place where he can still consistently perform, an audience of sorts before him and everything. While Kurt is still putting off throwing himself into the ugly world of auditions, it’s a comfort to him to be able to show up here, hop onstage and sing while people watch and sway and mouth the words along with him. 

And, it turns out, the reliability of this one shift has other perks as well. Making him easily accessible to friends who want to find him, for instance. Or ex-boyfriends. 

Kurt has just leapt off the stage, scattered applause and the closing notes of his song still ringing in his ears, when he spots him. He’s tucked hidden away in a corner booth, big glasses and a warm smile on his face.  

Barking out that he’ll be taking an intermission, Kurt strides over to Elliott, sweat on the nape of his neck and heart fluttering in his chest. By the time he’s reached the table, Elliott is looking down at the menu, coy. Kurt clears his throat pointedly.  

Elliott looks up again. His smile is wide. There’s a beam of orange sunlight reflecting off the the oversized lens of his ridiculous glasses. Kurt is reminded so strongly of that first real conversation they had, in this very place, those same glasses over Elliott’s eyes.  

“Starchild,” he breathes, tongue in cheek, a callback to that old name they’ve both forgotten, and the step he takes to sit comfortably beside him feels like a step into something both past and new. 


	5. pitch black/hi-octane orange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** for alcohol consumption  & some light recreational drug use (marijuana) in this chapter.

Kurt and Elliott fall back into close-knit friendship with an ease that defies all logic and convention.  

Rachel listens suspiciously every time Kurt comes home with casual, enthused stories about his friend-dates with Elliott, as if Kurt must be exaggerating their comfortable intimacy with one another. Dani gazes at them with cautious disbelief when the three of them are together, brown eyes bouncing back and forth between the two of them as they talk and touch and laugh and sing (then smiling and shaking her head with an ‘ _oh, nothing_ ’ when either of them ask what she’s thinking about.) Blaine, bless him, wraps his arms around Kurt in a bone-crunching hug when he hears, breathing “ _I’m so relieved, I felt so guilty_ ” into his ear, and Kurt just laughs. 

As with so many other things, it makes a sense to Kurt and Elliott both that seems to escape most of the people around them. Kurt is comfortable with that, comfortable with being comfortable with Elliott.  

A week after their friendship was reignited, Elliott’s silver darkened into pitch-black with thick bands of bright orange interspersed throughout.  

“Before you ask, yes, this is about you -- kind of. It’s about me, too, so don’t get too smug.” 

Kurt had smiled smugly anyway, before quipping “ _it looks like Halloween chugged triple sec and vomited atop your head_ ” (but he secretly likes it, maybe more than the silver, even, and maybe only because he’s just so happy to see him regularly again, however he can get him.) 

Things are easy between them, yes, just as they always were. 

Except for that _pesky_ , ever-burning sexual tension that ignites every time Elliott’s fingers brush Kurt’s wrists or their faces get too close. 

It feels the way it used to, before-before, when they weren’t allowed to even think about it but couldn’t help but feel it all on a bodily molecular level onstage together, eyes locked and chests heaving. It’s worse, now, feeling the pads of Elliott’s fingertips on his forearm when he’s felt them in the crease of his ass, looking at his plump red mouth remembering the suck of it at his neck. He knows Elliott must feel it too, can see it in the way he pulls back far more quickly than he ever used to, even when Kurt was still married. Kurt knows he has no right to take every one of these retreats now as a rejection but he can’t help but do it anyway.  

It’s late and the two of them are lounging on Elliott’s couch, dazed and inebriated and winding down from a night of public (and then private) karaoke. Kurt is drunk and a little high and thinking too much, hot as glowing coals as he eyes the long, hard lines of Elliott’s stretched out body where he’s sitting beside him, laid elegantly across his couch. A tattooed arm is flung behind his head, a thin white joint hanging between his dewy lips. His metallic green eyeliner is thickly smudged and Kurt just wants to fucking _ravish_ him. 

Head spinning and heartbeat pounding, Kurt drops to the hardwood floor beneath them, knees making pained contact as he crawls over in front of Elliott, parting his denim-clad legs with bold hands and settling himself between them. 

Elliott’s peering down at him, the edge of his jaw sharp, the tip of the joint still in his mouth burning fiery red. Kurt moves his hands to Elliott’s soft thighs, rubbing hungrily.  

“Kurt,” Elliott snaps, like a warning, but his eyes are bright, the joint unmoving. The air is thick with grassy smoke and heavy breathing and this fog-like tension that never seems to go anywhere, and Kurt can’t let himself give up just yet. 

“I miss you,” Kurt breathes, eyes stinging, and it feels like the most naked string of words he’s ever let flow from his mouth. 

“I’m right here,” Elliott replies, leaning forward to gently blow scented smoke in Kurt’s direction, the curls of it caressing his face.  

“I know,” Kurt’s voice is soft but feels so heavy in his throat. “You know what I mean.” 

“Yeah,” Elliott settles back, the blurred edges of those bright blue eyes moving out of Kurt’s line of sight. 

Kurt wiggles minutely, the rubbing at Elliott’s thighs growing more persistent. He moves his head into Elliott’s lap, chin pressing at the tip-top of his thigh.  

“I want to suck your cock,” Kurt moans, words thick and sweet as honey. 

“Fuck, Kurt,” Elliott sighs, legs shifting. “Okay. Okay.” 

Kurt slides his hands up under Elliott’s top, fingers gripping the warm skin of his stomach. He’s missed _this_ , the frictive drag of a textured finger pad against clean, smooth skin, heat intensifying as he moves. Elliott’s breathing hard, soft whimper-like sounds, and Kurt allows himself a moment to relish in the sumptuous wonder of the moment: warm, dampening skin beneath his hands, the plant-sweet smell of weed in his throat and nostrils, the body-tingling anticipation of the weight of Elliott’s big thick cock in his mouth. He trembles, a smile on his lips. 

He moves up on his knees, dragging the sable blue of Elliott’s button-down up just a sliver, cold lips pressing against the thermal glow of Elliott’s lower stomach, right above the waistband of his jeans. Elliott’s breath hitches and Kurt opens his mouth to lick a saliva-sticky trail against the outline of the denim, tongue tasting bitter-salt skin and stiff bleached fabric all at once. Elliott moans, low-pitched and loud, and Kurt feels the reverberating throb of it for several seconds after it's passed, taste buds still clinging to the clean sharp taste of Elliott’s skin and jeans.  

Kurt lets his tongue linger for only a moment more before he’s craning his neck up, thin fingers working at the bottom button of Elliott’s top. He pops it open slowly, feeling the give of it beneath his hands and delighting at the fresh few inches of skin the falling-away fabric reveals, shadowy and hazy in the room’s dim yellow lighting. He worships the newly-exposed expanse of torso before him, mouth kissing, licking, then sucking, Elliott’s quiet gasps all the reward Kurt needs.  

He moves up to the next button, mouth lips and teeth moving with him, swivels of the tongue lapping higher and higher with each popped-open button. Elliott is incoherent, chest straining up and vulnerable cries cooing into the air, his half-smoked joint forgotten on the coffee table beside him, tip still burning red.  

_And I haven’t even taken your pants off yet_ , Kurt thinks with a contented twist in his chest, half-up on just one knee now to reach the uppermost button holding Elliott together. It snaps open and Kurt lets the split fabric of the shirt slide down Elliott’s chest, agonizingly slow as each small writhe of Elliott’s body sends it dragging against his sensitive skin. Kurt expedites the process by pressing the heel of his palm against Elliott’s crotch, noting with triumph that he’s already rock-hard and smirking to himself when Elliott bucks up, top falling open completely. His dark nipples are beaded up, chest stubbly, and the delicate lines of his ribcage are visible with every upward jerk against Kurt’s teasing hand. 

Kurt stretches up, running the hardened tip of his tongue against the tight bud of Elliott’s nipple with a rough flick. When Elliott squeals he takes it between his lips completely, increasing the pull with each rhythmic suckle. Elliott’s crotch is rutting desperately up into Kurt’s hand, harder and faster with each passing second, the sweet sounds spilling out of his panting mouth reckless and open. Kurt pulls away, examining the sight before him for a moment: the bulge at Elliott’s crotch, the hard lines of his thick torso cloaked partially in the hanging-open blue of his shirt, tan skin wet with spit and bearing pink teeth and suck marks every few inches. His long neck is curled back, Adam’s apple protruding obscenely beneath his sharp jaw and gaping mouth. His eyes are tightly closed, lashes wet, jet-black mascara and the glimmery emerald of his eyeliner streaking down onto his high cheekbones.  

He looks beautiful, a trembling mess of spit and sweat and makeup, and Kurt wants to watch him unravel completely. He stands halfway up, crouching with a knee pressed awkwardly on the tiny spot of cushion available between Elliott’s thighs, grabbing the still-lit joint off the table beside them and sticking it between his lips (tip still damp from hanging in Elliott’s own.) He inhales, just a little, taking the burn and holding it in his lungs for one, two, three beats before he bends forward and exhales slowly into Elliott’s face, just centimeters away, watching the directed line of pale grey smoke curl into and around Elliott’s open mouth. 

Elliott breathes in, eyes fluttering open, the electric blue of his irises all the more remarkable for the artful green-black smudges around his eyelids. They stare at each other for several, charged moments, Elliott’s eyes misty, Kurt’s unreadable. It’s intense, this thing between them, intense as it’s ever been, and Kurt has missed _this_ especially, the mute conversation they manage to have just breathing into each other’s faces. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Kurt says finally, because it occurs to him he’s never actually said it before, and Elliott should _know_. He’s never looked more vivid to Kurt than he does right now, shining through layers of booze and drugs and their shared short-but-profound history.  

Elliott laughs by way of reply, letting his eyes slide closed once more. Kurt stubs the joint down into the ashtray next to them and lands an open-mouthed kiss on Elliott’s Adam’s apple, sloppily working his way down his neck, then his chest, torso, ribs, and stomach until he’s back at the crisp clean smell of his jeans, both knees seated back fully against the hardwood of the floor. 

Kurt undoes the button at the waistband, the metal of it cool beneath his fingers. He slides the zipper down, gingerly, mindful of Elliott’s hard-on beneath it, the slow, clicking sound of its descent settling low and hot in Kurt’s belly. Moving his hands to Elliott’s hips, Kurt gently pushes up, gripping the fabric hard and tugging them down when Elliott lifts himself off the couch just enough to help him. His briefs are thin and navy blue, the curved bulge of his cock straining through. Kurt does away with those next, eyes ravenous as Elliott’s dark patch of trimmed pubic hair is revealed just before his cock bounces out beneath the fabric, long and ruddy and just as pretty as Kurt remembers it. Kurt lets go of the briefs, watching as they snap against the underside of Elliott’s dick and whispering a quick apology when Elliott hisses in pain. He wraps his palm around the base and rubs his nose against the head, the salt-iron smell making his mouth water. He darts his tongue out, fleeting and soft, just under the ridge of the tip and bites back a laugh when Elliott squeaks, squirming.  

Kurt kisses the tip, chaste and playful, and slides the briefs down Elliott’s legs, letting them hang stretched and suspended around his ankles. His hands wander back up to Elliott’s hips as he stares reverently at his upright cock. 

“I’d almost forgotten how big you are,” it comes out of his mouth like a grunt, lascivious and so fucking dirty Kurt turns _himself_ on. 

A noise that sounds like a laugh hits Kurt’s ears but he can’t tear his eyes away from the sight before him for long enough to be sure. He leans forward, tongue out, and licks a hot thick band up the ample length of Elliott’s cock. Elliott lets out a long, breathy exhale, mirth forgotten, sounds growing louder as Kurt licks around the bulge of the head, carefully sloppy, saliva trickling down the shaft and Elliott’s hand moving to the back of Kurt’s head, fingernails scraping the back of his scalp. Kurt retraces the wet streak from his first steady lick, pressing down harder this time, tongue looser and wider, lips tipping up when Elliott’s thighs part further around him and the scratchy dig at the nape of his neck goes deeper.  

“Mmmm,” Kurt moans, performative and throaty, craning his neck to one side and wrapping his lips around the side of Elliott’s cock, low toward the base, as far around his considerable girth as he can manage. Breath hot and deliberate, Kurt glides up, hyperfocused on the veiny skin between his lips and the bruising grip on his neck, Elliott’s hand so big as he whimpers helplessly at the feel of Kurt gliding teasingly up the length of him, cock only partially encased until Kurt reaches the swollen tip and tilts his neck back around to suck the fat head in entirely, allowing himself to be shocked and decentered by the intrusive width of it for just a moment, lingering still as his jaw adjusts and Elliott howls above him. 

There’s a quiet rush of panic, as there always is, Kurt’s mouth stretched so wide around unrelenting cock, but he pushes through, sinks down, the meaty head curving up his palate, opening him up from within. Elliott’s hand spasms in his hair, gripping tight then stroking soothingly before clenching down again, his grunts bolder now, holding nothing back. Kurt descends further, eyes watering, challenging himself, now, wanting desperately to see how much he can take before his chest gets too tight to breathe. He’s sinking slowly, spit dribbling, Elliott’s thighs trembling at his sides.  

Kurt lets the tip hit the back of his tongue before he relents, feeling gorged open, vulnerable and fearful knowing Elliott would only have to thrust up to send him sputtering, choking, lungs closing up--  

_But he won’t_ , Kurt thinks, and the certainty of that thought emboldens him to linger, sucking down then loosening up, heart in his throat as the noises leaving Elliott’s mouth (far off though they sound) get faster, escalating in high-pitched abandonment.  

When Elliott whimpers out a splintered “ _please_ ,” Kurt slides up, slow and steady, breathing hard through his nose, the relief of his gradually-emptying mouth matched only by the cock-tingling anticipation that another filling plunge is ahead. When he’s ascended high enough that his mouth is wrapped only around the head, he sucks hard and braces himself for the next descent, heart and head racing as he moves down, considerably faster this time, jaw and throat widening, hitting as close to the bottom as he can manage before he’s flying up again, confidence rediscovered, sucking in, tongue dancing to the shattered melody of Elliott’s squeals, inhales, and moans. 

After several hard bold bobs, Kurt pops off, giving the tip of Elliott’s cock a lick before he tightens his fist around the shaft and jerks mercilessly fast, hand gliding with ease over and around the glistening saliva-slick length, his left hand moving to gently rub Elliott’s tender balls. One arm pumps frantically while the other strokes softly, ballsack clasped in his hand for a few moments until he points a finger and dips it lower, grooving past Elliott’s sweaty perineum down to the blazing hot crack of his ass, finger pressing against the dry dent of his rim. Kurt keeps it there, unmoving, no lubrication available to go any further, looking up to see Elliott thrown so far back only his jutting chin is visible, chest soaked and arching up as he _screams_.

Kurt keeps his hand wrapped around the base of Elliott’s cock and takes him into his mouth again, cheeks hollowed out as he moves dizzyingly fast, jaw screaming and insides gaping as he stuffs himself down, empties himself up, then down again, Elliott so thick and hot and painful inside him, Kurt’s fingertip circling his dry twitching hole and Elliott so far gone he’s gasping out Kurt’s name between open-throated shrieks, both hands now squeezing into the back of Kurt’s head as he grunts out “ _I’m coming, I’m coming_ ,” thick warm sweet-salt shooting into Kurt’s mouth and Kurt pulls off and swallows, relishing the hot-nauseous feel of it sliding down his throat. 

Kurt falls backward onto his ass, rattling gasps shaking his chest, suddenly sore all over as the sex adrenaline rush dwindles. He reaches to the table behind him to clasp around the half-emptied bottle of merlot, taking a deep swig. His head clears with the motion, then fogs up again, limbs heavy.  

Elliott remains panting on the couch, still thrown back, jeans and undies around his ankles and limp, wet cock exposed. Kurt puts the bottle of wine onto the floor beside him with a heavy _thunk_ , then crawls up to join Elliott on the couch, sitting a few inches away, hands to himself. He’s not sure what the boundaries between them are now. He’s not sure this has changed anything. 

Elliott turns his neck slowly to face him, damp with sweat, mouth open. (There’s a droplet streaming from the corner of his eye that may be a tear, but Kurt can’t be sure.)  

“I know the gentlemanly thing to do is to return the favor but I’m really--” 

“No, me too,” Kurt agrees, softly laughing. “I couldn’t get it up right now even if I wanted to, I need sleep.” 

“Come here, then,” Elliott shifts until he’s lying on his side (not bothering to pull his pants up), stretching his legs across the couch when Kurt moves to lie down next to him. He wraps a heavy arm around Kurt’s side and snakes his leg between Kurt’s calves, breathing heavily against his neck. 

Kurt moans contentedly, warm and comforted by the all-too-familiar and much-missed feeling of Elliott wrapped around him. His eyelids flutter closed and everything starts going hazy. 

“I still love you, you know,” Elliott whispers into his ear after a few minutes of sleep-tinged silence. He sounds regretful, which immediately nullifies any joy Kurt may have thought he’d feel at that expressed sentiment. 

“I’m sorry,” is Kurt’s only reply, and he can only hope Elliott hears the _I still love you, too_ lurking just beneath it. 


	6. virgin rose lilac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for reference to canonical character death (Finn.)

Elliott has developed something of a fanbase. 

And, well, _of course_ he has, with his outrageous style and long hard body and that truly otherworldly voice that used to make Kurt tremble with jealousy but now just makes him tremble with something else entirely. 

He acquired a bit of attention with his string of small-but-impressive roles in off- and on-Broadway productions, enough attention that he’s taken to putting on small, intimate shows of his own, sloppy and spontaneous with original songs and some covers and anything an admirer might shout at him to sing onstage, and it’s messy and unstable and nothing Kurt thinks he himself could ever make a career out of but it _works_ , and naturally he never misses a show, not ever. 

Elliott is onstage now, cast in the dim lighting of the grungy performance space around him, eyes heavily lined and closed shut as he sings into the mic before him, notes sharp and clear and so well-controlled it makes Kurt’s eyes sting. Elliott runs the black fingerless gloves adorning his hands through the light cupcake pink of his gorgeous hair, and Kurt can’t help but to swoon alongside the rest of the adoring crowd.

When Elliott finishes up with an apologetic goodbye and the mingled response of sad sighs and ear-ringing applause, Kurt immediately slips backstage to meet him, as he always does. He throws his arms around him and lets himself be lifted slightly, face in the slightly sweaty crook of Elliott’s long lovely neck. He breathes hard against his skin, body vibrating like it’s finally popping open after the slowly-building pressure Elliott’s shows always incite inside him. 

Kurt is gently dropped and lets go reluctantly, nerve endings aching. Every now and then, Elliott surrenders to the pull between them and takes him home after a show, hands groping desperately before they’ve even privately hidden themselves away, but most nights he resists. Kurt can already tell this will be one of those nights.

“Kurt,” Elliott greets him with a wide smile, as if they hadn’t already spent the hours before the show together. “I don’t know how you don’t get bored attending every single one of these.”

“It’s different every time,” Kurt reminds him, smiling back, fingers playing with the leather of Elliott’s gloves (the boundaries between them are paper-thin always now, and it’s hard for Kurt to remember, sometimes, that despite all the intimacy and the occasional mind-blowing sex they’re not actually dating, not since so long ago.)

“Still,” Elliott laughs. “What is it going to take for me to convince you to join me onstage? It’s been months and you keep denying me.”

“No one wants to see me up there,” Kurt shrugs, laughing softly. “I like watching you.”

“Yes, but I love watching _you_ , and it’s selfish, really, that you stubbornly withhold that simple pleasure.”

“I don’t want to ruin this thing you have going. Your fans adore _you_.” 

“And they’ll adore me more when they see me bouncing off of you. So to speak,” Elliott winks, black eyeliner smudging. “You make me better.”

“Oh,” Kurt’s cheeks are a little pink, mouth surprised. “Well, I’ll think about it. I’d look so plain up there next to you with your pretty pink hair and heavy makeup and outstretching tattoos…”

“Like you could _ever_ look plain,” Elliott scoffs. “But if you were worried about it, we could dye your hair. A lovely light lilac to match my pink--”

“Okay,” Kurt says, body warming as he shocks himself with that response. “Lilac. I could do that.”

“I-- what? Really?” Elliott’s eyes are wide, mouth hanging open. Kurt bites back a giggle.

“Yes,” Kurt grins. He remembers Elliott’s hair, cyan and wet and blindingly bright, and excitement floods through him, its spiking edges careening into something like hope. “I think it’d be a hit at Vogue, really.”

“I’m sure it would be,” Elliott agrees, eyes still bulging slightly, voice disbelieving.

“Do you have somewhere to be? We could buy the bleach and dye now-- get the whole process started--” Kurt’s voice is high-pitched, his heart thrumming wildly in his chest. He’s surprised by how much he loves the thought of this, sticky burning chemical heavy in his hair, the promise of a new reflection at the end of it. (And maybe with it, something new with Elliott, because it feels always like they’re leading up to _something_.) 

“Oh, I actually...do have somewhere to be tonight,” Elliott looks regretful, legs shifting almost anxiously. It immediately strikes Kurt as wildly uncharacteristic, concrete panic replacing the light feeling in his chest. 

“Oh?” Kurt asks, trying to look curious and not despaired, fairly certain he knows where this is going.

“I have a date -- with a fan, actually,” Elliott laughs, eyes blank. “It was a little awkward when we started talking, but it’s cool now. He’s here tonight.”

“Oh.” (Turns out, hearing it said aloud hurts anyway, no matter how much Kurt tells himself he knew what was coming.) “That’s great.” 

Kurt’s voice sounds tight but convincing enough to his own ears, hand dropping from Elliott’s quickly. 

“Well, I’ll go then, let you get ready,” Kurt continues, raising an eyebrow suggestively, smile coy as he dies inside. 

“Wait--” Elliott stops him with a hand on his bare forearm, and Kurt’s heart leaps. “Could you...help me with the ‘getting ready’ part? I have the dressing room for approximately twenty more minutes until they kick me out.” 

“Sure,” Kurt’s voice remains steady. “Did you bring a change of clothes?”

“No, I just need to reapply my face,” Elliott smiles, gesturing toward his worn eyeliner.

“You’re going in _that_?” Kurt asks, incredulous as his eyes swoop down Elliott’s loose-fitting black tee and denim jeans. 

“We’re just meeting at a coffeeshop,” Elliott defends himself, a laugh in his voice. “It’s not that serious.”

Kurt wonders if that last part is supposed to comfort him. 

“Well, okay,” Kurt concedes with a sigh. “But you’re better at applying your own makeup than I am.”

“I know,” Elliott takes Kurt by the arm and leads him toward the tiny, grungy dressing room in question. “But help me anyway.”

Once Elliott is seated, face raised toward Kurt expectantly, Kurt paws through Elliott’s bag to find his makeup bag and face wipes. 

Kurt takes a wet wipe in hand and glides it over Elliott’s face, lingering at his eyes (where most of his makeup has collected) and rubbing hard. 

“Gentle,” Elliott scolds, lips upturned.

“You can handle it,” Kurt assures him, the rub growing no less vigorous. Once Elliott’s face has been scrubbed near-red in its cleanness, he tosses the wipe into a nearby trashcan (choosing to ignore what looks suspiciously like a used condom sitting at the bottom of it for now. He’ll have to have a talk with Elliott about his show venue choices some other time.)

“Okay, what color eyeliner are we going for?”

“I don’t know, what do you think? Which makes me look most _ravishing_?” Elliott blinks his eyelashes prettily in Kurt’s direction, face pinched playfully.

“The green,” Kurt replies instantly, taking the thin pencil in hand.

“Hm, I have noticed you get particularly handsy when I’m in the green,” Elliott grins.

Kurt flushes. They tend to _not_ talk about all that sex they sometimes get up to. It just happens.

“Okay, tell me about this guy,” Kurt intones, lowering Elliott’s left eyelid with a gentle thumb and running the tip of the metallic-green pencil at the edge of his lashline. 

“His name is Paul,” Elliott breathes, eye fluttering beneath his lid.

Kurt scoffs.

“What?” Elliott asks, unattended eye fluttering open as Kurt thickens the band of green on the lid beneath his fingers.

“Nothing, sorry -- some monosyllabic names just bother me,” Kurt brings the pencil to the innermost corner of Elliott’s eye.

“ _You_ have a monosyllabic name.”

“That’s why I said ‘some.’” 

“Anyway,” Elliott laughs, stilling when Kurt hisses at him to stay still, “Monosyllabic name aside, he’s an NYU graduate and a community organizer for some LGBTQ center.” 

Kurt hums approvingly despite himself, moving down to line Elliott’s lower lid, a hand on his chin.

They’re both quiet as Kurt moves to Elliott’s right eye, Kurt’s heart heavy in his chest and Elliott’s skin so soft beneath his hands. Once Kurt has finished, lines thick and precise, he places a palm on Elliott’s cheek with a giggle.

“Okay, open up.”

Elliott’s eyes open as commanded, and, yep, he looks _incredible_ , eyes big and blue and rimmed with emerald green, metallic and bright. The green plays off that pastel pink of his hair gorgeously, and _Paul_ will undoubtedly be itching to drop to his knees the second he’s seen Elliott up close.

“Ravishing?” Elliott asks, eyebrows wiggling.

“Yes,” Kurt laughs. “Go get him.”

Elliott stands up, pulling Kurt into a tight hug. Kurt melts into it and tries not to think about how very, very sad he is.

“Thank you, Kurt,” Elliott breathes into his ear, low and intimate (and it’s cruel, really, to wind Kurt up like this when his hands will be elsewhere tonight.) “I hope you were serious about the lilac. I think you’d look absurdly hot.”

“ _Ravishing_ , even?” Kurt asks with a small smile, pulling away.

Elliott nods, hands sliding down Kurt’s arms. 

His phone chimes somewhere deep in the pocket of his jeans, and he digs it out, a little frantic. 

“Okay, I’m meeting him out front now,” Elliott exhales, face manic. “I’m not sure why I’m nervous.”

“Just go,” Kurt laughs. “It’ll be great.”

Elliott stares at him briefly, looking a little like he wants to say something, but then he just nods, squeezes Kurt’s shoulder, and bounds off without another word.

Kurt stands alone for several, self-pitying minutes before a security guard barges in and informs him the next performer of the night needs the room. Kurt nods, wrapping his arms around himself, and heads out, trying not to dwell on everything he suddenly feels he’s lost tonight.

***

On his way home, Kurt stops by a beauty supply shop and purchases bleach and dye (and some deep, deep conditioners to attempt to ward off some of the bleach-induced damage.)

Feeling heartsick and numb and reckless, he quickly mixes the necessary chemicals and saturates his hair with the thick stinking paste, careful in application but not bothering with the extensive research he knows _should_ be preceding this uncharacteristically spontaneous gesture. 

It burns and itches and there’s an almost-comfort in it, in the way it makes Kurt conscious of little beyond the discomfort on his scalp and the heart-pounding horror of what he’s doing to his precious virgin hair. 

When his timer goes off, Kurt rinses his hair in the sink without even bothering to turn a light on, the darkness of his bathroom heightening the relief of the cool water balming over his aching scalp. Once he’s washed it all out and scrubbed his hair damp with a rough towel, the reality of Elliott’s night hits him again, cold and sharp, and Kurt can’t even remember why he decided to change his hair in the first place.

Kurt takes a desperate peek at his phone, but there’s no word from Elliott. Or anyone. Kurt runs a hand through his damp, altered hair and frowns in resigned terror, crawling into bed and falling asleep without even bothering to look into a mirror.

***

_\----To Elliott (8:05 AM)_ : EMERGENCY. 

\---- _To Kurt (8:09 AM)_ : ??? what is it? you okay?

\---- _To Elliott (8:10 AM)_ : My hair is orange. ORANGE. 

\---- _To Kurt (8:11 AM)_ : what did you do?

\---- _To Elliott (8:11 AM)_ : I bleached it last night. It’s possible I was a touch more careless than I should have been.

\---- _To Kurt (8:12 AM)_ : well, orange happens. you have to bleach it again.

\---- _To Elliott (8:13 AM)_ : Is that safe?

\---- _To Kurt (8:13 AM)_ : i do it all the time. put coconut oil in your hair, i’ll come over to help you in a bit.

\---- _To Elliott (8:14 AM)_ : You’re a godsend. I look forward to hearing more about Paul, by the way.

***

Elliott bursts into peals of crazed laughter the moment he sees him.

Kurt crosses his arms, allowing him to finish, staunchly unamused (this is entirely _his_ fault, after all.) 

“Sorry,” Elliott gasps after several moments, forearm clutching at his stomach. “This is a normal stage of the bleaching process. You just look so mad.”

“You should have warned me.”

“I didn’t know you were going to run off and do it on your own!”

“This was your idea,” Kurt persists, unable to hold back the hint of a smile pulling at his upper lip.

“Okay, let’s get that next round of bleach in, then -- where should I--”

Kurt wordlessly points to the materials already strewn out on his counter. 

Elliott slips a pair of gloves on and begins mixing with confidence and clear experience. “Come here,” he says after a few moments, ushering Kurt over.

Kurt complies and crouches, allowing Elliott to run the mixture through his hair with a brush and expert fingers. He resists the urge to moan.

“So, about that date…” Kurt begins, eyes closed and a pained smile on his lips.

“It was fine,” Elliott laughs, fingers working at the back of Kurt’s head. “He was nice. And attractive. Tall.”

“Will you be seeing him again?” Kurt tries hard not to sound hopeful, or nervous, or like anything at all. 

“I don’t know,” Elliott admits. “There wasn’t much of a spark, really.”

“Sometimes sparks take time,” Kurt reluctantly offers. 

“Yeah,” Elliott sighs, moving his hands from Kurt’s hair and slipping his gloves off. “But it’s hard to be patient after, well, you know...you.” 

There’s a twist in Kurt’s chest that feels like guilt. 

“Anyway,” Elliott says, breaking Kurt’s silence. “I’m done here. Let’s leave it in for a bit before we rinse again.”

Kurt turns to face him, a pout on his lips. “It burns.” 

“I know,” Elliott pouts back sympathetically. “Let’s get your mind off it, I have a bunch of old _Project Runway_ episodes on my laptop.” 

Kurt claps his hands together excitedly and moves to the couch, sinking down and staring happily at Elliott as he brings his laptop bag over. Elliott sits down next to him, weight heavy, and Kurt has to resist the urge to drop his bleach-soaked head onto Elliott’s shoulder like he normally would. 

They watch comfortably together, Kurt’s knee pressed against Elliott’s thigh. They snark and _ooh_ appropriately at the screen as if they haven’t already watched these episodes together dozens of times, and Kurt takes a couple of breaks mid-marathon to rinse and move on to the next stages of the dyeing process, toner then color finally, marveling at his white-blonde reflection and the deep pink-purple tint of the dye he finally works through his hair.

When the final timer goes off, Kurt makes a sound halfway between an excited squeal and a terrified exclamation, turning to look at Elliott with wide eyes.

“The moment of final rinsing truth has arrived,” Elliott declares dramatically, eyes glimmering. “Want me to help you through it?”

“Hm, no,” Kurt decides, a mysterious smile on his face. “I want it to be freshly washed and styled and fabulous when another human lays eyes on it for the first time. Something to properly shock the memory of that heinous orange out of you.”

“Sounds good,” Elliott laughs. “Do you want me to go, or should I stay here…?”

“You can go, if you have somewhere else to be, but I’m fine with you staying,” Kurt tries, as always, to sound disinterested. 

“Today’s all about you. I’ll stay.” Elliott smiles and shifts more comfortably on the couch as Kurt moves to the bathroom, a pleased spring in his step.

Kurt spares his dye-smeared hair a single glance in the large mirror of his and Rachel’s shared bathroom before quickly stripping his loose, chemical-stained clothes off to step into the shower. The warm water feels heavenly against his poor, abused scalp, and he gasps at the sight of purple-tinged water streaming down his body and the cool ivory of the bathtub beneath his feet.

Running his hands through his hair to ensure every last fleck of dye is expunged, Kurt sighs contentedly. He understands, now, why Elliott does this so often. There’s something about the process of it, the mechanics, the quickly-alternating discomfort and relief that feels cleansing, somehow. Kurt feels like he’s purging something old and stale, watching the brightly-colored traces of his bold new decision trickle down his arms and legs.

Once his hair has been thoroughly rinsed, Kurt moves on to the rest of his body, lathering himself in the thick sweet smell and feel of his preferred oatmeal-almond soap. Out of Elliott-proximate habit, he pays _especially_ meticulous attention to his dick and ass, humming in muted pleasure as he runs suds-heavy hands over and into himself.

Kurt holds his breath as he turns the shower stream off and steps out, quickly toweling himself off before tying it low around his waist and tip-toeing over to the mirror, light and nervous.

His mouth drops open at the sight of himself, skin prickling as he anticipates recurring moments of similar ground-shaking shock happening every time he’s placed before a mirror for a few days at least. Kurt can’t remember ever feeling shocked by his own reflection before, that steady, glacially-moving constant in his life now radically disrupted by the unnatural gasp of color sitting wetly on his head.

The color is bright and clear, an almost-pastel lilac complementing the rosy pale of Kurt’s skin splendidly. Kurt grabs his hair dryer from the bathroom cabinet below him, making quick work of running it through its hair on its highest setting, eager to see it upright and without the darkening effect of the water still sticking to him.

He runs his fingers through his hair in thick sections, the resulting swoop a little more tousled than his usual immaculate coif, but it _works_ , lilac and artfully disordered, a little dangerous. Kurt’s cock is throbbing at the sight of himself, reawakened from the hearty scrub of his shower and magnetically pulled toward this face in the mirror, both himself and not. 

Kurt is considering quickly rubbing himself to hardness and jerking off into the toilet, hot-faced and dirty, when he hears a knock at the bathroom door. He squeaks, startled, finally turning away from his own reflection to stare over at the door.

“Sorry!” Elliott exclaims from the other side. “I just heard the hair dryer turn off a few minutes ago, and I’m dying to see your hair, and...my impatience got the better of me.”

“Oh,” Kurt giggles. He runs his fingers through his hair, adjusts the towel slung low around his hips, and puffs his chest out. “You can come in, the door should be unlocked.”

Kurt keeps his eyes trained on his reflection as he hears the door tentatively squeak open, heart pounding loudly in his ears and throat as Elliott’s heavy footsteps move toward him. He isn’t sure why he’s scared to look at him, but can’t bring himself to turn.

Elliott resolves the issue by settling behind him, high chin above Kurt’s shoulder as Kurt watches his blue eyes fixate on Kurt’s form in the mirror. It’s a little weird, this removed eye contact they’re exchanging via reflection, intimate and distant at once, Kurt’s cheeks going pink and his nipples hardening as he both sees and feels the burning intensity of Elliott’s stare.

They make quite the sight: Kurt nearly naked, Elliott clothed in black; Elliott’s pastel pink hair brushing against Kurt’s lilac own. They’re gorgeous, Kurt thinks, both separately and together. The room is so quiet he worries Elliott can actually hear every subtle rise of his heart rate and hitch in his breath. 

“You look beautiful,” Elliott breathes, voice deep, eyes awed and still fixed so stubbornly on the mirrored image of Kurt’s own. 

Kurt wants to say _thank you_ but watches his mouth move around what sounds like a whimper instead, his eyes shining as Elliott’s hand settles on his waist from behind. Elliott cranes to press his lips against Kurt’s neck, that tender spot just under his ear, and Kurt finds the image of it almost as overwhelming as the hot-soft feel. Kurt lets his head fall back, slow and careful, still watching the red lips pucker at him through half-shut lids. 

Elliott takes Kurt’s lengthened neck as exactly the invitation it was intended to be, mouth falling open to nip lightly at the spot, breaths coming hot and hungry as the grip at Kurt’s waist grows tight, possessive and punishing in that playful way they sometimes have. 

Kurt moans, the sound of it echoing in the silence, eyelids fluttering shut completely as the wet warmth at his neck makes him tremble, cock stiffening at the preserved image of Kurt and Elliott and everything they become when they’re together flickering in sharp color behind his eyes.

Elliott’s mouth moves to the soft slope of Kurt’s shoulder, large hands dropping to the towel around Kurt’s hips. He pulls it off roughly, fingertips digging into Kurt’s soft hips. Kurt gasps as the air of the room hits his cock and ass, skin prickling. 

The hands at his hips slide down to his ass, kneading roughly, the gripped cheeks parting and pressing back together as Elliott squeezes rhythmically. Kurt whimpers and pushes back, eyes opening to drink in the sight: his own neck thrown back, skin flushed, naked torso taut and the tip of his dick just visible at the mirror’s bottom edge. Elliott is pressed close behind him, face tilted down but eyes still on Kurt’s reflection as his hands play with his ass. 

Kurt isn’t sure he’s been this ridiculously turned on _ever_ , watching Elliott watch him, so desirous of both the man behind him and of himself in a way that feels new and scandalizing, hair light purple and lithe pale body so pliant beneath Elliott’s commanding clutches.

Kurt feels vulnerable, responsive all over, hair follicles and nerve endings singing as Elliott’s hands move, the friction of his inner ass cheeks rubbing together then separating almost unbearable. He could come just from this, probably, leaned back against Elliott’s hard chest as his ass crack cools and warms, the skin of his cheeks blazing. 

Elliott’s soft lips trail from shoulder to shoulder blade to the tip of his spine, advancing downward from there, Kurt’s full-body shiver growing more and more violent as Elliott’s attentive mouth licks lower and lower, luxuriously slow down his back. He lingers at the base of his spine, on his knees now, lips and cheek nuzzling the skin there, hands still groping Kurt’s soft ass. 

Kurt opens his eyes again, chest jolting when he realizes he can no longer see Elliott from this position, bent down behind him beyond the boundaries of the mirror before them. He misses looking at him but it’s hotter now, too, only himself staring back at him, bottom lip worked between his teeth as he waits for Elliott’s mouth to move down to that hungry center quivering between his kneaded ass cheeks. Watching it as if its happening to someone else, Kurt feels bolder, _deserving_ of this, curious about the markers of pleasure painting his reflection’s body and eager to feel more even as he _sees_ more. 

Elliott’s mouth is at the top of his crack now, mercilessly teasing, tongue ghosting just barely into the crevice. 

“ _Please_ ,” Kurt moans, face gorgeously wrecked.

Elliott dips his tongue lower in response, still so far from where Kurt needs it but getting closer, buried between the two upper swells of his ass. Kurt’s back arches as his nerve endings light up, a thin trail of saliva trickling down his crack so slowly it almost tickles. He squirms slightly and grips onto the cold counter in front of him for balance, grunting “ _god, yes_ ” when Elliott’s patience ebbs and he pulls him open, lips and tongue hungrily and swiftly moving down, glowing sparks of toe-curling pleasure bursting down Kurt’s ass and behind his eyelids with every sloppy lick.

Purposefully evading his hole like the cruel teasing fuck he is, Elliott laps his long tongue down to Kurt’s tender perineum, quickly sliding back up and squeezing Kurt’s ass open further, puckering his lips with an overdone sound and pressing them against Kurt’s dry hole. Kurt whines, feels his body vibrate there, tightening and loosening. 

Then Elliott’s tongue is just against the dip of his hole, thick and soft and with a hard-pressing upward swipe that nearly makes Kurt lose his balance as his rim blazes into fiery new life, goosebumps cropping up his arms and neck as his tender asshole gets licked up, wet and messy, Elliott’s sharp nose pressing into his sensitive crack as his tongue works around Kurt’s flexing pucker, stomach flipping and quiet whines spilling out of his mouth.

Elliott’s mouth gets bolder, tongue pressing in instead of only around, the tip of it wiggling inside Kurt, wet dancing light pressure that makes his thighs shake, unsteady on his legs as he droops forward to spread his ass wider and get Elliott’s playful tongue in deeper, every twitch and muscle in Kurt’s body collaborating to bring all focus to his hungry hole. 

Kurt’s embarrassingly close to nearing the edge of orgasm, asshole stretching, when Elliott pulls away with a final hard lick over and across Kurt’s winking rim. Kurt’s about to protest when Elliott presses his cheeks back together and begins peppering haphazard kisses all over the flesh of his ass, making Kurt giggle instead, still feeling wet and open and needy but enjoying Elliott’s appreciation of this part of him nonetheless.

“Do you still keep lube in this cabinet here?” Elliott’s voice is rough, breaths gusting against Kurt’s left ass cheek.

“Yes,” Kurt exhales, the pink of his face deepening to red as he thinks about Elliott fucking into him (it’s been too long since they last did that, went that far.) 

Steady again, Kurt smiles at himself as he hears Elliott rifle through the bottom drawer for the bottle of lube Kurt leaves stashed there for events just like this one. Kurt, giddy and bubbly, takes advantage of Elliott’s distraction to bring his own hand behind him, sliding a finger between his saliva-dappled cheeks to rub a fingerpad against his own wrinkled hole, moaning as it dilates beneath him, still so wet with Elliott’s spit and exquisitely sensitive. Kurt could rub himself to climax this way, hole unfurling slowly, but it’s even better to know he doesn’t have to.

“Hey, stop that,” Elliott scolds, lightly smacking Kurt’s hand. Kurt laughs as he moves it back to the counter, parting his thighs further.

“Well, get to it, then,” Kurt’s voice is low as he wiggles his ass, still smirking at himself in the mirror.

His own finger is immediately replaced with Elliott’s, slippery with thick lube and plunging into Kurt as Elliott stands up again. Kurt gasps, watching Elliott’s pink-haired, pink-faced head rise as his index finger slides up his hole, fast and easy and so fucking good Kurt feels like he’s on fire.

“Another,” Kurt grunts, Elliott’s finger long and searing deep into him but not thick enough to give Kurt the _burn_ he always longs for. 

Elliott replies by sliding the finger out, reigniting all those nerves inside Kurt’s tight channel as he drags out, and Kurt feels the pressure just outside his hole double in girth before both slide right back in, wet and delicious. Kurt laugh-moans, mouth wide open and neck flung back as the two digits invade, so frictive and so far up inside him Kurt feels like he’s floating, balanced on the edge of this heavy intrusion moving to the core of him.

“That feels so good,” Kurt breathes, one eye on their shared reflection, Kurt’s neck so long and his jaw so sharp, Elliott so big behind him and watching Kurt arch further and further back, nipples straining in the air and his slim little waist stretching up.

“You’re so hot around me,” Elliott breathes right back, the words sounding shattered as he wiggles his fingers around deep, deep inside.

“I love the feel of you inside me,” the sentence streams out of Kurt’s mouth like a single word, flowing with not a breath to interrupt it. He feels powerful, loving the sight and feel of Elliott so far gone with only his fingers up Kurt’s too-long-neglected ass. 

Elliott moans, eyes fluttering shut as he moves to shallowly thrust the fingers, now, catching Kurt’s prostate on on the sixth or so plunge. Kurt jerks and giggles, pushing back and bouncing down, cock screaming.

“Mmm, yes, right there,” it comes out like a babble but Kurt has never felt more in control, eyes watering. “I want your big fat cock.”

“Oh god,” Elliott gasps, fingers moving frantically, every other pump sending a burst of lightning through Kurt’s body. “Here?”

“No, the bed,” Kurt’s voice is hazy with lust and pleasure but determined. “I want to be on my back with you on top of me. Hold me down and fuck me.” 

They both spend a few more seconds staring into themselves, pink and purple and skin and black, before Elliott quickly pulls his fingers out (Kurt hissing) and moves to pick him up, arm hooking beneath Kurt’s knees to carry him like a newlywed bride in a stock photo.

Kurt nearly objects for a second, but Elliott is laughing and he can’t help but join him, wrapping an arm around his neck to balance his weight more evenly. They hold eye contact throughout the brief trek to the bed, both breathing hard, Elliott’s arms strong around him and Kurt trembling, needing just to be fucked _so_ badly and _now_. 

Elliott lays him across the bed, straight on his back as commanded, and Kurt immediately bends and lifts his legs, wide open, cock balls and slick asshole on unabashed display, an exhibitionist-esque mix of thrill and embarrassment filling his dick up.

His teasing tactics seemingly behind him, Elliott yanks his top off over his head and drops his pants and briefs in surely record-cracking time, kicking them impatiently to the side and standing before Kurt in all his nude, tan-skinned, tattooed, hard-dicked glory. Kurt bites his lip, eyes dropping to that long pretty cock, squirming in place as he stretches his arms behind him.

“Come here,” Kurt demands, and Elliott rushes over, dropping down on top of him. Kurt wraps his legs around him, ankles crossing at the middle of Elliott’s back, hands moving to his neck and shoulder.

Elliott’s dick reaches Kurt’s spread asshole and plunges in with no further prep or conversation. It’s too much, too fast, but exactly what Kurt wanted, and he howls, face pained and mouth an open O as throbbing ache and ass-opening pleasure flood his tense warm frame.

It’s been a while, but Elliott remembers the particulars of Kurt’s body, knows just what he can take and can tell by the way Kurt’s fingers claw desperately at his back that the roughness is welcome, Kurt making shocked, near-scared noises that crescendo from soft to howling and then back again, an accidentally artful pattern of immodest open-throated sex sounds that Elliott has always been best at pulling out of him. 

Elliott’s hands reach around Kurt’s throat, tight but not squeezing, feeling his pulse flutter wildly and the sharp intakes of breath filling him up then emptying him out. Kurt feels so ripped open tears stream from his eyes, like he’s nothing beyond a wet tight hole to be mercilessly fucked, red-hot burns and prostate-dragging flares of perfect pleasure flaying him apart. 

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Kurt repeats, a legato drumbeat of on-edge exclamations that follow Elliott’s hard steady thrusts, his pumps so hard the bed beneath them moves and squeaks, the whole moment a symphony of obscene sound and body-gorging jolts. 

Kurt has never felt so full, pressure ripping through him, soaking with sweat as he screams helplessly, Elliott holding him down by the neck, so heavy on top of him and tearing in and out and in again until Kurt is so sensitive and worked up, muscles burning, that he thinks he might pass out before he even gets to come, imagining himself unconscious as Elliott pounds away, legs dropping and cock leaking.

_No_ , Kurt thinks, asshole flaring, determined to come conscious and fully-present, feeling every painful gorgeous inch of Elliott’s perfect cock. Elliott keeps moving, jostling Kurt’s body violently with every beastly thrust, grunting like he’s suffering and dripping droplets of salty sweat onto Kurt’s face and neck. 

“Look at me,” Elliott grunts suddenly, fingers on Kurt’s neck tightening.

Kurt’s eyes flutter open, meeting Elliott’s own. He sees his agonized pleasure reflected in Elliott’s gorgeous face, twisted as it is into open-mouthed moans, eyes bright and wide and blinking out drips of sweat as he looks down at Kurt with so much lustful adoration that the tears already dripping down Kurt’s cheeks intensify.

With a few quick rough jabs into Kurt’s wrecked ass, each hit boxing into that sweet sore spot inside him, Kurt comes, eyelids screwing shut as his orgasm thrashes his full body up against Elliott, ass clamping down around him as waves of near-blackout-inducing bodily bliss shoot through Kurt and out of his cock, trapped still between the two of them. 

Kurt’s full form melts like butter as he relaxes back onto the mattress, laughing and crying in the balming relief of post-orgasm glow, Elliott still hammering into him, the pain far-off and somehow still so welcome, Elliott’s grunts growing higher in pitch and more and more mangled.

“Come on, fuck me, yes, like that,” Kurt keeps whispering, wincing and gripping Elliott’s shoulders, legs still lazily wrapped around him. 

Elliott sounds like he’s choking, thrusting with a consistent energy that Kurt envies. Kurt squeezes down around him, rocking his hips lightly to meet Elliott’s, intensifying the collision of each frantic push, his own limp wet cock bouncing against his stomach.

“Mm, I’m so sensitive,” Kurt whimpers, the rub inside his ass truly too much, now, soreness spiking.

“God, Kurt,” Elliott sputters, Kurt’s name punctuated by a shrill moan, Elliott’s hips pistoning fast and deep and suddenly unsteady and Kurt knows Elliott is coming even before Elliott shriek-gasps and he feels the spill of it inside him. 

Elliott collapses on top of him, sharply panting, the sweat-drenched pink of his hair pressing into Kurt’s neck. Kurt’s breath remains labored, body still taxed and tender all over, Elliott’s full weight pressing him down into the mattress with a smothering force that makes him want to fall asleep.

He knows they need to talk, though, so he rubs his hands comfortingly at the dip of Elliott’s spine instead, breath regulating as Elliott’s chest rises and falls hard against him. Once they’ve both cooled off, intakes of breath slowing, Kurt allows himself to laugh.

“Hm?” Elliott asks, rolling just slightly off of Kurt with a raised eyebrow.

“Nothing,” Kurt assures him, still smiling. “I was just thinking that that was hands down the most enthusiastic compliment on my hair I’m likely to ever receive.”

“Oh,” Elliott laughs. “Well, I hope so. I didn’t, um. Exactly plan for that to happen.” 

“Me neither,” Kurt promises. “I mean, maybe a little. But just as precaution. As I tend to do.”

“Yeah,” Elliott grins, face sly. “I noticed.”

“I’m guessing this doesn’t bode well for you and Paul,” Kurt says, shifting onto his side.

“Hm,” Elliott looks down, brows contemplative. “Or me and anyone.”

Kurt face pinches tight, bothered by the unreadable tone in Elliott’s voice. “What do--”

“Why did you dye your hair?” Elliott asks sharply, looking up again, blue irises clear.

“I don’t--”

“I suggested it, playfully, and you jumped right for it, almost like you’d been waiting for it. Why?”

“I wasn’t _waiting for it_ ,” Kurt snaps, reaching down to pull his (in dire need of a washing) blanket over his hips. “I don’t even know what that means.” 

“Sorry, I’m not-- I’m not accusing you of anything,” Elliott promises him, voice warm. “Just, what went through your head in that moment? Because you looked...I don’t know.”

Kurt watches Elliott carefully before replying.

“I don’t know, either. I guess I just thought-- I remembered that time, when we were dating, and I suggested you try the cyan, and you surprised me with it. I just wanted to return -- not the _favor_ , that doesn’t make sense, but the sentiment, I guess.” 

“Okay, yes, _that’s_ what I’m asking,” Elliott exclaims, face inching toward Kurt’s. “What’s the sentiment?”

“That I love you,” Kurt responds without thinking. The muscles in his back stiffen, but he lets the sentence hang in the air as is.

Elliott stares at him, lips parting but no words following.

“To be honest,” Kurt continues with an emboldened, coy smirk, the echo of that past conversation on his tongue. “I kind of thought that was obvious.”

Elliott smiles, cheeks darkening before his features settle into curious seriousness once more. 

“Okay, but, it didn’t _feel_ that obvious when you and Blaine--” 

“I know,” Kurt is quiet, eyes downcast. “I messed up. I don’t know what more I can do to apologize.”

“You already apologized,” Elliott assures him, no trace of anger or resentment anywhere in his face or voice. Kurt shifts again, unsure what to expect. “I guess I just thought…” Elliott’s voice trails off.

“Thought what?”

“There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you, since it happened, but I’ve been too cowardly,” Elliott’s face has hardened, more determined than unkind.

“Another question? This is starting to feel like an interrogation,” Kurt deadpans.

“If I don’t ask it now, I never will,” Elliott defends himself, and it’s not quite a threat but there’s nonetheless a taste of something like one in the assertion. “So do you want to hear it?”

“Yes, go on.”

“If Blaine was single, do you think you’d be with him?” 

_Oh_. Kurt supposes he should have expected something like that. He’s only mildly distressed to find he doesn’t have a clear answer.

“I don’t know, Elliott. That’s not a fair question. How could anyone possibly know that?” 

“Hm,” Elliott considers this, then nods slightly. “Okay, let me rephrase. If we, say, started dating again, and Blaine then became single again -- do you think you’d--?”

“What? Leave you for him?” Kurt is trying very hard not to be irritated. 

Elliott nods in lieu of response, looking only a little sheepish. (Kurt begrudgingly admits to himself that it’s a fair concern, all things considered.)

“No,” Kurt says, doubtless. “I’ve chosen you. Or, well, I mean -- _would_ choose you, if you wanted me to--”

“God, I want you to,” Elliott sighs, wistful. “You light everything up for me. And I don’t want to come across as, I don’t know, possessive, or paranoid, or too obsessed with one thing that happened or anything, but that was hard for me, harder than it would have been had it been literally anyone else.”

“I know. I get that,” Kurt frowns, fidgeting with the hem of the blanket partially covering him. 

Elliott takes the fidgeting hand in his. Kurt looks at him and smiles tightly. He feels more bubbling up in him, and can tell by Elliott’s expectant silence that he can feel it, too. 

“I think about Finn a lot,” Kurt says finally, throat constricting as emotion threatens to overwhelm him. Elliott squeezes his hand tighter. “When he used to talk about Rachel, he had this _certainty_ about him, like the world was forever conspiring to bring them together, or there was only one possible endpoint for them. I thought it was romantic, at the time. Like the universe had already chosen for them, paths and lives predetermined and forever crossing.” 

Kurt is looking down at his belly now, and feels rather than sees Elliott’s nod. He continues.

“I believed it. I watched him and Rachel, and I saw it. And all Finn’s simplistic but moving imagery about _tethers_ and _pulls_ \-- well, I felt it with Blaine, too. I still do. But as I get older, that tether just feels more and more like a chain.”

Kurt’s breath catches, nose stinging, but he persists, determined to get this out. He feels lighter already.

“I think about Finn now, and I just -- he was wrong, wasn’t he? If there was a predetermined endpoint for him and Rachel, it wasn’t the one he thought it was. He was wrong.”

Elliott’s thumb strokes over Kurt’s knuckles.

“I can’t be fettered to that. I don’t want something pre-chosen, or inescapable. That just sounds tragic to me now.” 

Kurt thinks about his hair and smiles, running a hand through it. Even the feel of it against his fingers is different, now, and the world feels changed. He looks Elliott in the eye again, feeling bright and sure. 

“All that to say: yes, I want you.” 

“Good,” Elliott replies, eyes shining. “I want you, too.”

When Elliott leans in and kisses him, lips dehydrated against his own, it doesn’t feel like ‘forever.’ It feels instead like something inarticulably _more_.  


End file.
